In the horrified silence that followed, Vannor’s expression was a mixture of rage and utter shock—then suddenly his face broke into a grin. “Well, since I did have the nerve to copy you, you foulmouthed little runt, perhaps you’d better teach me some of those tricks that you mentioned—if you have any, that is.”
“Oh, I have them, all right,” the cavalrymaster promised. “The dirtiest tricks that never got into the book. And I’ll teach you them all, my friend—but it can wait until after we’ve done some serious drinking!” Putting his arm around Vannor’s shoulders, he was about to lead him out of the cavern when Sangra, who had been tactfully soothing the injured pride of the indignant young Nightrunner leader, called him back. “Hold on a minute, Parric. Aren’t you forgetting something? Your serious drinking is a fine idea, and I’m all for it in due course—but it must wait until we’ve talked to Yanis.”
“Bugger!” Parric muttered. “You can see why I never made commander. For a minute there, I had forgotten.” He turned back to the crowd of curious and expectant smugglers, forgetting that, in all propriety, he should first give his news to their leader. “Listen, all you Nightrunners,” he shouted. “We’ve come here all the way from the Southern Kingdoms with a message from the Lady Aurian. She’s returning to the north—and she needs your help.”
Even though the cavalrymaster was well accustomed to bawling across parade grounds and battlefields, his voice was drowned in the uproar that followed.
Being so short in stature, Zanna suffered her usual fate of being thrust aside as the crowd of Nightrunners, all asking questions at once, advanced on Parric. Cursing, she attempted to push herself between the mass of bodies that blocked her view of the cavalrymaster and her father, but she might as well have been trying to fight her way through the solid rock at the back of the cavern. Oh well, she comforted herself. Since she was Vannor’s daughter, at least she’d have a chance to speak with the newcomers later. For now, it was simply enough to know that the Mage was returning, and that she would be seeing her soon. Why, it might even be that she, Vannor’s youngest daughter, would have a chance to help the Lady Aurian in her fight against the evil that had seized the land!
Turning to find Tarnal in order to share her excitement with her friend, Zanna found that he, too, had vanished in the general melee. Instead, she found herself looking directly into a pair of warm, rather vague brown eyes that looked both gentle and perplexed. Standing next to her was the stranger who had come with Parric and Sangra on the back of the whale.
A tingle of excitement and trepidation went through Zanna. She’d had little time to think about Parric’s companion during the tricky business of steering her little boat safely into the great cavern, but here was a real foreigner from an unknown land across the seas—the first man she nad ever met who was not of her own race. She looked at him for a moment, suddenly feeling nervous and not a little shy, conscious that she was staring rudely, but unable to help it. Then the strange young man peered at her shortsightedly, put out a hand whose sleeve was still dripping seawater, and smiled. “Are you not the kind young lady who rescued us from the ocean?” he asked in a lilting, oddly accented voice.
No one could possibly be afraid of a man who had such an amiable smile. Zanna accepted the proffered hand and introduced herself. “And are you truly a friend of the Lady Aurian?” she added breathlessly.
The stranger’s smile broadened. “Indeed, I count myself honored to be a friend of the Mage. My name is Chiamh, and I am Windeye of the Xandim.”
“Windeye? What’s that?”
Chiamh shrugged in mute apology. “It is too long and complex a matter to explain now. I am a kind of seer, if you will.”
Since the young girl had no idea what a seer was, or what one did, she was little the wiser. She was about to press for an explanation, when suddenly Chiamh sneezed. Zanna realized, with a pang of guilt, that the poor man was soaked and shivering, and in the general excitement she had never thought to do anything for his comfort. “Why, you’re wet through! I ought to be ashamed of myself,” she told him contritely, “keeping you talking here when you need dry clothes, and something hot to drink. If you’ll come with me…”
“Perhaps I ought to wait for Parric,” Chiamh began hesitantly.
“Nonsense. He’ll be along directly—and in the meantime, there’s no sense in your catching your death of cold. Believe me, they’ll be chewing over this business for hours yet. You won’t miss much.” And with that, Zanna, much relieved to be doing something useful while she was excluded from the general discussion, took hold of the Windeye’s arm and firmly led him away into the warren of caverns.
Having settled Chiamh, Zanna slipped out of the guest chamber and came round the corner of a corridor just in time to see Remana showing Parric into another guest room. She saw Vannor, close on the headwoman’s heels, slip inside after the cavalrymaster, leaving Remana shut out on the threshold. A shiver ran through the young girl’s frame. Judging by the expression on Dad’s face, she knew what he wanted to ask the cavalrymaster behind closed doors. Zanna swore softly. She had forgotten about bloody Sara! But of course Vannor’s wife had been sent to the south with Aurian—did this mean that when the Mage returned, Sara would be coming back too?
Zanna caught herself up sharply. She ought to be ashamed of such selfishness! Whatever she might feel about her stepmother, it would break poor Dad’s heart if Sara didn’t return! As Remana’s footsteps died away along the passage, Zanna crept out and positioned herself with one ear pressed against the door. Though her conscience pricked her, for she knew it was wrong to listen to other people’s private business, she pushed the thought firmly aside. If Sara was coming back, she simply had to know!
Ever since he had first heard Parric’s astounding news that the Mage was on her way home, one desperately urgent question had been raging at the forefront of Vannor’s mind. It took every ounce of self-control that the merchant possessed to wait until Remana had finally managed to disperse the persistent crowd and conduct the visitors to chambers where they could change their sodden clothing before speaking with Yanis in private. But once Sangra had been settled in her accommodation, and the headwoman of the smugglers ushered the cavalrymaster to the room that had been prepared for him, Vannor pushed his way in on Parric’s heels and closed the door behind him, leaving an indignant Remana to fume outside.
“What?” Parric looked round, startled, as the door slammed. “Oh, Vannor. It’s you. I don’t suppose you know where they keep the drink in this place?”
To Vannor’s mind, his friend’s brightly casual tones rang false. The merchant’s heart sank. He knew that, if there had been any good news, Parric would have told him immediately, instead of trying to avoid the subject. Though he quailed inside at what he might hear, Vannor could bear the suspense no longer. “Parric—what about Sara?” he asked directly. “Do you have any word of my wife?”
The cavalrymaster swore softly. “Yes,” he replied with equal bluntness. “And I’m not going to tell you she’s dead, Vannor, so you can set your mind at rest. Nonetheless, old friend, it’s news you should hear sitting down. Go on: sit!” he added in a growl.
Numbly, Vannor let himself sink into a carved wooden chair.
Parric stood fidgeting in front of the fire, his wet clothes steaming gently in the heat. “She never was any good for you, you know,” he began awkwardly.
The merchant half rose from his seat, hot words of anger on his lips—but Parric’s next words froze him into stone. “She’s gone, Vannor. Left you for good. Aurian and Anvar say she deserted them in the far southlands—to marry a king.”
Vannor sank limply back into the chair, his thoughts an inchoate whirl of denial, bitterness, and rage. After a moment he became aware that Parric, his weather-beaten face creased with concern, was trying to push a cup into his hand. The merchant grasped it almost tightly enough to crack the glaze, and downed the strong distillate in a single gulp.